There was nothing palpable in it, nothing even remotely suggestive
of a breach between them; only, subconsciously as it were, Muriel had
become aware that their silence, which till then had been the silence
of sympathy, had subtly changed till it had become the silence of a
deep though unacknowledged reserve. It was wholly intangible, this
change. No outsider would have guessed of its existence. But to the
younger girl it was always vaguely present. She knew that somewhere
between herself and her friend there was a locked door. Her own
reserve never permitted her to attempt to open it. With a species of
pride that was largely composed of shyness, she held aloof. But she
was never quite unconscious of the opposing barrier. She felt that the
old sweet intimacy, that had so lightened the burden of her solitude,
was gone.
Meanwhile, Daisy was growing stronger, and day by day more active. She
never referred to her baby, and very seldom to her husband. When his
letters arrived she invariably put them away with scarcely a glance.
Muriel sometimes wondered if she even read them. It was pitifully
plain to her that Will Musgrave's place in his wife's heart was very,
very narrow. It had dwindled perceptibly since the baby's death.
On the subject of Will's letters, Nick could have enlightened her, for
he always appeared at the cottage on mail-day for news.
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